by Teri Wilson
“Really. Are you certain?” Sam angled his head.
“What? Violet’s not—” Her friend with the glasses frowned and gave a start. “Oh right! Violet’s the one in charge. You should definitely go talk to her.”
Sam regarded the three women, longing for a single ordinary encounter with someone in this town. Just one. He’d take anything.
“All right.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll go have a word with Violet.”
“Excellent,” the Chihuahua-mom said, and they all grinned at him again, ear to ear.
Sam snaked his way through the ever-growing crowd with Cinder glued to his side. A few people reached out to pet her as they passed, but she politely ignored them and focused on the task at hand, just as Sam had trained her to do. The set of his shoulders relaxed a little when only two or three people mistook her for Sprinkles.
Progress. He’d take what little he could get.
A line had formed at the cupcake counter by the time Sam got there, so he fell in place at the end to wait his turn. Cinder sat as still as stone, inching forward only when Sam did. The bingo caller began bellowing letter and number combinations just as they reached the front of the line.
“You again,” Violet whispered, her generous smile going strained around the edges. Sam was immediately and irrationally bothered by her palpable disappointment at the sight of him. “Would you like a cupcake?”
Sam’s mouth watered.
“No, thank you,” he said under his breath.
A flicker of hurt passed through her aquamarine eyes. “Fine, then. I’m sure Cinder won’t mind a little nibble.”
“O seventy-four,” the bingo caller said into his microphone. “That’s O. Seven. Four.”
He pronounced the number four like the word foe, which for some reason seemed hilarious to Sam. He stifled a grin while Violet broke a small chunk off a cupcake decorated to look like a B4 bingo ball and bent down to offer it to his Dalmatian.
“Thanks again, but no,” he whispered. “Cinder is working.”
Violet straightened and narrowed her pretty mermaid eyes. “It’s not chocolate, if that’s what you’re worried about. I know better than to feed dogs chocolate cupcakes. This is just simple Bavarian cream.”
Sam’s stomach growled, and Cinder cocked her spotted head. Bavarian cream didn’t seem simple in any way, but damn if it didn’t sound delicious. “I believe you, but it doesn’t matter what flavor it is. Cinder can’t have treats of any kind while she’s working.”
“But she’s a dog,” Violet said, dropping the whisper altogether. “That’s just mean.”
A nearby bingo player shushed her, and her cheeks went as pink as the cupcake atop her silver Airstream.
“It’s not mean,” Sam whisper-screamed. “It’s professional. She’s a working dog.”
“It’s super mean.” Violet popped the bite of cupcake meant for Cinder into her own mouth. Then she licked a dollop of frosting from one of her fingertips, and Sam was momentarily spellbound.
“You, Sam Nash, are a meanie,” she hissed.
“B eleven. That’s B. One. One,” the caller shouted.
Sam let out a laugh. “Did you just seriously call me a meanie?”
This wasn’t second grade. They were grown adults.
“Shhhh.” A nearby retiree—yet another member of #TeamViolet—glared at Sam.
“I did.” Sprinkles’s mischievous head popped up from the other side of the counter to snatch a treat from the tray and then disappeared. Violet’s cheeks went a shade or two brighter than cupcake pink. “See? Dogs like treats, especially Dalmatians. Even if they’re working dogs. I suppose you don’t let her have a paycheck either?”
“That’s not how it works,” Sam said flatly.
Violet looked down at Cinder and then back at him. “So she’s basically slave labor.”
How was he having this absurd conversation?
“I feel for her.” Violet shook her head. “She’s obviously deeply unhappy, having to stand beside you and act like a robot all day long.”
“A robot?” Sam heard his own voice rise above the tumble of bingo balls in their spinning wire cage. “She’s not a machine, she’s trained. You might want to look into that yourself.”
“Ouch,” the bingo caller said into his microphone.
“You know what?” Violet’s eyes glittered. “Cinder is the perfect name for your Dalmatian.”
“Because I’m a fireman.” Sam sighed. Here we go again. He’d never met anyone who loathed firefighters at all, much less with this particular brand of intensity.
“No.” Violet shook her head and smiled sweetly at him. Too sweetly. “Because it’s short for Cinderella, and the poor little thing is always doing your bidding.”
“Bingo!” someone shouted, and Sam had no idea if it was a legitimate win or if he was being mocked.
Either way, he was finished here—one hundred percent done. And so was everybody else. They just didn’t realize it yet.
“The number of people in this lobby exceeds the amount permitted by the Turtle Beach fire code. I’m sorry,” Sam said, even though he was suddenly not sorry in the slightest. “I’m shutting you down.”
Chapter 5
The nerve.
Violet trembled with rage as she sped home in her cupcake truck. She was shaking so hard she probably could have given Nibbles the Chihuahua a serious run for his money.
How could Sam have done such a thing? Granted, things had gotten a little heated between them. She’d probably crossed the line by calling Cinder slave labor. But come on, he wouldn’t let her have a teeny tiny bite of a cupcake? That seemed like cruel and unusual punishment for a perfectly lovely Dalmatian who never put a paw wrong. And as the police chief’s daughter, Violet knew a prisoner when she saw one.
Did he really need to punish the entire island, though? Clearly the man had no clue how seriously the residents of Turtle Beach took their bingo.
Violet wasn’t about to let him get away with it. Her father had been right.
This means war.
“You have to win the softball game this Saturday,” she blurted to Joe after she’d parked her cupcake truck at a furious angle, stomped up the three flights of stairs to his apartment at the March family beach house, and pounded on the door until he answered.
His eyes lit up at the sight of the loaded baking tray in her arms, and he held the door open wide. “Cool, you brought cupcakes.”
“I’m serious, Joe.” She walked past him and dumped the tray on his butcher block kitchen island while Sprinkles made herself at home in Joe’s favorite recliner. “The police need to crush those lowlife firefighters.”
“Aren’t you the one who suggested just this morning that we end the feud?” He picked up a cupcake, jammed it into his mouth, and reached into the refrigerator for two bottles of beer. “Want one?”
Seriously? Read the room, Joe. “Thanks, but I’m not really in the mood for beer.”
He shrugged and perused the remaining cupcakes. “Since when do you care so passionately about softball?”
“Since this.” She reached into the pocket of her swing dress, pulled out a folded slip of pink paper, and slapped it down on the kitchen island with sufficient force to cause the cupcakes to jump in place.
Joe looked at it and then back toward Violet. “Given your current state of agitation, I’m almost afraid to ask.”
Violet crossed her arms. “Go ahead. Read it.”
He tipped his beer bottle back for a generous swallow before picking up the paper. Violet paced the length of the small kitchen while he unfolded it.
“This is a ticket,” he said. And then a vein popped out in his neck. “For a fire code violation!”
The tension in his voice roused Sprinkles from the recliner. She leapt over the back of it and bounded into the k
itchen to paw gently at Joe’s knee.
“Now do you see why I’m so upset?” Violet threw her hands up.
Joe studied the ticket and absently ran a hand over Sprinkles’s head. “This ticket is for a violation involving maximum occupancy rules. What did you do? Throw a party in your cupcake truck during business hours? I didn’t think you let customers in there.”
Violet fumed. Of course her brother would think she was to blame. “I did nothing of the sort. I didn’t do anything wrong at all. Sam Nash just strolled into the senior center and shut down bingo night.”
“And he ticketed you for the violation?” The vein in Joe’s neck was looking angrier by the second. “That doesn’t make sense. You don’t even work there.”
Violet was sort of hoping he wouldn’t hone in on that detail. “Someone apparently told him I was in charge.”
“Don’t tell me.” Joe tossed the ticket onto the kitchen counter and reached for his beer. “It was the Charlie’s Angels, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
“Violet, I’ve said this before and I’m going to say it again: you need to find some friends your own age.”
Why did everyone keep saying that to her? She was perfectly happy with her social life, thank you very much. And Turtle Beach was a tiny island. Who exactly was she supposed to hang out with? Sam?
She shuddered in horror at the very thought of it. “Ethel, Mavis, and Opal are perfectly harmless. You’re totally missing the big picture, here. Sam closed down bingo. He’s obviously a monster.”
A monster whose slugging percentage was the best in University of Chicago’s history. Yes, Violet had Googled him, and no, she wasn’t proud of it.
“I thought I told you to stay away from him,” Joe said.
“I am staying away from him. I can’t help it if he showed up at bingo night with an obviously evil agenda.”
“I don’t know.” Joe shook his head. “Bingo night does get pretty packed. I don’t know what the maximum occupancy numbers for the senior center look like, but he may have been right. I’m a little surprised he didn’t issue a warning instead of writing up a violation right out of the gate. It makes me wonder if he was somehow antagonized.”
He arched a brow. Resting Interrogator Face activated. Violet must have been off her game. She didn’t see it coming.
She swallowed hard, and Sprinkles slinked out of the room. So much for loyalty. “I didn’t antagonize him. I simply told him I thought he was mean for not letting his Dalmatian have a tiny bite of cupcake.”
Joe took a sip of his beer and waited for her to crack and say more.
Dang it. Opal was right. Joe was frighteningly good at this. “I also might have told him that Cinder was obviously short for Cinderella since the only reason he kept her around was to do his bidding.”
“And there we have it.”
Violet sighed. “Oh, please. I know you agree with me. I’ve seen you give Sprinkles food right off of your plate. Just because Cinder is a ‘working dog’—”
Joe held up a hand. “Wait. Is Cinder Sam’s official partner?”
“I suppose so.” She shrugged, and then remembered that Joe had been trying to get the TBPD to allow him to get a canine partner for years.
But that was different, wasn’t it? Police dogs actually chased criminals, found illegal drugs, and prevented bombings. What did fire dogs do? It wasn’t as if they could hold a fire hose with their paws.
“I wonder if he’d be willing to give me some advice.” Joe frowned. “Just so you know, working dogs shouldn’t be given treats while they’re on duty.”
Now Violet was the one who probably had an angry little vein throbbing in her neck. “You’re completely missing the point. Sam needs to be stopped.”
“If you’re upset about the ticket, you should have made it clear that you don’t actually represent the senior center in any official capacity.” Joe drained his beer and reached for another cupcake.
“What was I supposed to do—let him ticket a bunch of ninety year olds?” No way. Over her dead body. “It’s not like it’s a real ticket, anyway.”
Joe’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? Yes, it is.”
“Hardly.” She reached for the ticket and crumpled it into a ball. “If Sam Nash thinks he can scare me with a little slip of pink paper, he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”
“Violet.” Joe dropped his head and sighed.
“Don’t worry about me. I know exactly what I’m doing.” But did she, though? Did she really? “All I need is for you and the rest of the force to bring your A game this Saturday.”
Until then, Violet would simply have to take care of things herself.
***
Sam wasn’t exactly sure when he’d started letting Cinder make his bed in the mornings. It had sort of just happened, and now it was simply part of their daily routine. When Sam’s alarm went off at 5 a.m., he stumbled out of his king-size bed and headed to the bathroom while Cinder grabbed hold of the sheet with her teeth and pulled it back in place. Next, she dragged the duvet over the sheet, and voilà, the bed was made.
He’d never set out to teach the dog to do household chores, but Cinder was exceptionally smart. And observant. Like most Dalmatians, she was also extremely energetic.
That was the thing most people failed to understand about the breed. Sure, their spots were striking. And those Disney movies? Cute as pie. But Dalmatians were sensitive and highly spirited animals. Their sharp intellect made them quite trainable, but it also meant that Dalmatians were smart enough to get into all sorts of creative trouble if they didn’t have a suitable outlet for all that boundless energy. Case in point: Sprinkles.
When Sam first brought Cinder home from the shelter where she’d been living for nearly three months, she’d been a nervous wreck. Whatever had happened to her before being rescued by the good Samaritans at the shelter had left its mark. The Dalmatian had been afraid of house flies, ceiling fans, doorways, and the television. It didn’t matter what sort of programming Sam landed on—even the Hallmark Channel sent her scurrying for cover beneath the coffee table.
In the beginning, Cinder’s training had nothing to do with fire safety. The idea of having her as a partner hadn’t even crossed his mind. He just wanted to help her to be a happy, well-adjusted pup. He’d started out by offering her a cookie every time she happened to poke her cute little heart-shaped nose out from beneath the table when the television was turned on. By the end of the day, she felt comfortable venturing out from her hiding place if he kept the volume on the flat-screen turned down low. Come Saturday night, Cinder was ready to sprawl on the sofa with a bucket of movie butter popcorn for Netflix and chill.
So of course Sam had been keen on teaching her new things. Within a month, it became clear she had the makings for an excellent fire safety dog, plus he loved the idea of taking her to work with him every day. She was his best friend in the whole world. Eventually, she’d become his work partner too. Sam trusted his Dalmatian with his life. He’d sacrifice himself for her in a heartbeat, and he knew she would do the same.
Still, Sam couldn’t seem to shake Violet’s words from his consciousness as he leaned against the doorframe of his bedroom, toothbrush dangling from his mouth while Cinder made his bed.
She’s obviously deeply unhappy, having to stand beside you and act like a robot all day long.
It was nonsense. There wasn’t an ounce of truth to it, but Sam couldn’t help but wince as Cinder pulled the duvet over his bedsheets and then trotted toward the kitchen to turn on his coffee maker.
He’d had nothing to do with the bed-making. The Dalmatian had simply seen Sam do it himself enough times to make an impression on her. But he was guilty with respect to the coffee trick. It had only taken him three mornings to train Cinder to rise up on her hind legs and press the power button with one of
her front paws. Sam loaded up the coffee maker with fresh grounds and a filter before he went to bed every night, and by the time he finished brushing his teeth in the morning, he had a fresh pot of French roast waiting for him. It honestly wasn’t that big a deal. Heck, most women thought it was cute.
Somehow, Sam sensed that Violet March would disagree.
He wasn’t sure why her opinion should matter. It didn’t matter.
Sam frowned into his coffee, swirling with fresh cream and guilt. Cinder glanced up at him from her spot by the sliding glass door where she’d settled down to gnaw on a thick rawhide bone with a big knot on either end.
“You’re happy, aren’t you, girl?”
Cinder lifted her head and looked at Sam with her usual expectant expression. There wasn’t a trace of Dalmatian indignation on her precious face, just pure devotion…
Which somehow made Sam feel even worse.
“From now on, I make my own coffee, okay?” he said, feeling both resolute and ridiculous all at once.
Cinder liked learning new things—at least it seemed like she did. Sam wasn’t sure of much of anything anymore, thanks to his beautiful adversary in the ongoing Dalmatian war.
“And no more making the bed. That’s got to stop. Try to just relax when you’re at home.” He took a shameful swig of coffee and then set the mug down with a plunk. “Come here, and I’ll show you.”
Sam strode back to the bedroom. Cinder scrambled to her feet and followed, identification tags jangling.
“See?” Sam pulled back the duvet.
Cinder’s gaze swiveled toward the bed and then back at Sam. She let out a baffled whimper, followed by a soft woof.
“I’m serious,” Sam said.
He fell onto the bed and flopped around, mussing the sheets as best he could. Then he stood and stared down at the catastrophe of a bed. Maybe he’d gone a little overboard, but surely this would get his point across.
He planted his hands on his hips and waited. Sure enough, within seconds, Cinder scrambled toward the bed and clamped her mouth over the edge of the sheet.
